


love picks a season (like a kiss picks a reason)

by lovebender



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Barista Keith (Voltron), Christmas Fluff, Coffee Shops, First Kiss, Getting Together, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Lance (Voltron), alternatively: mistletoe shenanigans and me projecting my struggles onto lance, i don't know how to write kissing: a fic, what is this, writer lance ?? kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebender/pseuds/lovebender
Summary: “Are you, uh. Okay?”Was he okay? He felt a bit like floating, chills rushing through his lips and fingertips, spreading through his entire body. He should back away, he knew that much. But he couldn’t. And he ultimately didn't want to.“I’m having a crisis.” he said instead, feeling as if this was good enough of a summary.-In which Lance is having some troubles with writing a kissing scene, and Keith turns out to be just the help he needs.





	love picks a season (like a kiss picks a reason)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keithkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keithkin/gifts).



> this fic is dedicated to cato, who was my secret santa giftee! i hope that your holiday season will be as lovely as you are, and that you will enjoy this mess, if even just a bit
> 
> the title is from a song called ['our season'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm9QtgW7Ud8) by dom and dodie !!

* * *

“I can’t. I’m a failure and I’ll never write another sentence again, in my life, ever.”  
  
Next to the snowy woods on the very edge of the town stood a small cafe called _Balmera_ \- it’s red, pointy rooftop and tiny chimney making it look like a house out of a fairytale. The man behind it all was quite outlandish himself, dressed in velvety blue robes, with an impressive ginger mustache and the strangest stories that he would share upon the simplest questions. It was a known fact that if you asked Coran what time of the day it was, he would most likely delve into a story about how he met the Time herself.  
  
Coran’s hoarding tendency had a lot to do with the way the place was decorated- old wooden bookshelves covered with all sorts of things: from snow-globes and porcelain music-boxes, to books written in what he said were ancient alien languages, and maps that he claimed to contain directions to different kinds of monsters and treasures. Even during Christmas, the place looked peculiar in a messy, charming way- with the abundance of half working, half broken colorful fairy-lights that adorned the windows, as well as those glass ornaments in shapes of snow-covered pine cones and golden apples that were probably purchased six generations ago.  
  
Lance usually liked the comfy, warm atmosphere the cafe provided- the sound of the small bells on the door and the chatter of the people who came through it filling him up with an easy, familiar sort of inspiration.  
  
That specific day, however, was the day before Christmas; leaving the cafe completely empty save for himself and the grumpy barista who lounged across the counter. With no people there to cover up the sound of the jazzy Christmas music, the ambiance grew softer and sleepier each time Lance blinked- the gentle glow of the fairy-lights making the scene not unlike something you’d find in a lullaby video.  
  
It also did a great job of making Lance realize how much rather he would spend his first day of holidays sleeping than struggling to write this shit stain of a story.  
  
“You’re being overdramatic,” Keith offered from his place on the counter, momentarily lowering the coffee mug he had been furiously scrubbing for the past five minutes to offer Lance what he probably thought was a comforting look. “That’s your Secret Santa story thing, right?”  
  
Lance huffed, finally allowing his head to fall against the table with an exasperated sigh. He slightly misjudged the sheer force of the hit, causing him to yelp and rub the hurt spot on his head as he gazed up at his friend.  
  
“That’s what it’s supposed to be,” he said, glaring at the feeble word count that mocked him from the bottom of the page. “A mess is what it actually is.”  
  
Keith jumped across the counter (because you see, Keith never really learned the concept of doors and avoiding unnecessary conflict), leaning his head against Lance’s shoulder to peer at the screen.

Lance’s heart most definitely didn't stutter at the proximity, thank you very much.  
  
And it wasn’t like Lance minded this new presence resting on his right side, or like he ever _actually_ minded Keith’s presence at all. The issue was in that consistent, giddy feeling he got whenever Keith as much as looked in his direction, as if somebody shook a bottle of sparkling water and opened it inside of his stomach. The issue was that annoying voice in his head telling him to _"put your arm around him, pull him closer, play with his hair”_   whenever Keith was in a four-meter radius.  
  
“Or there isn’t an issue at all.” Allura would tell him when he would wake her up at three in the morning to complain about Keith’s hair. “Perhaps this is just your insecurities blocking you away from what’s really going on. First, you avoided acknowledging your crush by portraying it as a rivalry, and now that you’re no longer in denial your brain is trying to convince you that he could never like you back.”  
  
After that talk, Lance decided to reserve all of his future Keith-related rants for Pidge. She would simply pat his head, offer him peanut butter cookies and mercilessly beat his ass in video games.  
  
Keith stared at those full three sentences on the screen of Lance’s laptop; the same three he had been deleting and rewriting for the past four hours, eyelids falling and stress levels rising with each passing second. Keith smelled vaguely of something that reminded Lance of a Yankee candle he once owned, and it took all of the power his sleepy mind had not to bury his head in the others’ shoulder until he’s close enough to tell which candle it was exactly.  
  
“I wouldn’t say it’s a mess,” Keith commented, moving from Lance’s shoulder (something that definitely didn’t leave his side feeling unsatisfyingly empty) to sit next to him.“There aren't enough words for it to be _anything_.”  
  
Lance shot him a dirty glare, pretending as if the transition of Keith’s playful smile into a barely noticeable worried look wasn’t more breathtaking than any sunset he had ever seen.  
  
Wow. He really did have it bad.  
  
That was ninth time during that particular day that he caught himself internally whisking up purple prose about something as mundane as Keith’s breathing, or just his general existence, and each time Lance would feel the urge to slap his hand over both his heart and his brain. The dude was just putting his hair in a ponytail- no need to drive himself into a cardiac arrest and write four sonnets about the freckles on the back of his neck.  
  
Thought they were, admittedly, some really adorable freckles.  
  
“It’s hard! I just don’t know how to write this without making it seem forced. I’ve changed the plot seven times, buddy. _Seven times_. I might just delete my Tumblr, change my name and move into an internet-less country. Goodbye Lancey-Lance. RIP and all that.”

Keith chuckled.

“Come on, you can’t die. Who will make fun of me if you do?”

Lance waved his hand around dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find someone. Who would pass up the opportunity to mock that hairstyle?”

And also write poetry about it but, you know. Details.  
  
“You’re impossible,” Keith concluded with a small snort, but there was a fond smile on his face that implied something else. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

Lance tapped his chin with the end of his blue straw as if in deep thought, letting out a chorus of ‘hmmm’-s.

“No, yeah, it really is. Mullets were a mistake even when they were considered cool.”

Keith stepped on his leg under the table and Lance whined exaggeratedly at the relatively light hit. “I was talking about your story you dumbass. Didn’t your giftee give you a prompt, or whatever?”  
  
“Here lies- yeah, that’s what I’m having issues with- Lance McClain, a son, uncle, and friend, loved by ladies and gentlemen alike. Owner of the milkshake that brings errrbody to the yard. Cause of death: losing the little dignity he had left after he publishes this.To his friend Keith he leaves nothing, because he betrayed him in his last moments.”  
  
He proceeded to move his fingers across the keyboard with a deadpan expression, creating an what he found to be a pretty therapeutic key-smash.  
  
Keith sighed, indulging his hopeless friend. “And what was the prompt?”  
  
“The prompt,” Lance begun, glaring at the screen of his laptop as if the mere thought of writing about this personally offended him. “Is being brought together by a mistletoe kiss.”  
  
Keith's eyebrows furrowed in obvious confusion. “So?  I thought that would be your favorite holiday trope, you being the great romantic and all.”  
  
Lance sighed, because _of_ course Keith was right- he was undoubtedly, exaggeratedly, awfully romantic- and that wasn’t something he could just deny whenever it didn’t go in his favor. After all, it’s hard to deny that kind of accusation when you’re talking to someone who witnessed you proclaiming your undying love for the first boy who simply held the door for you, or finding a true love in a girl who stole your bike and handcuffed you to a tree.  
  
(Okay, maybe the last one was solely a Lance experience.)  
  
It was also incredibly hard (and he’s talking final level in _Killbot Phantasm One_ kind of hard) to look at the face of the person who had been the main star in your recent daydreams - who shined a bright, rosy glow even when Lance took off his rose-colored glasses- and say that he wasn’t romantic. It was hard; because he spent the very first night after he realized his feelings for Keith planning their wedding and searching up kids’ names.  
  
It was hard because at that exact moment he could feel his heartbeat quicken and cheeks burn when he looked a bit to right and noticed that Keith’s gaze was already on him.  
  
And that’s why he just shrugged, doing his best to appear completely nonchalant while he ruthlessly hit the F key on his laptop, with a rage of a truly embarrassed and lovesick boy.

“I just don’t know how to write kissing.”

Keith paused with his mug wiping again (How long did take to clean a single mug, seriously?), and Lance thought, for a brief second, that he saw Keith’s eyes follow the movement of his lips after he said that.

“You?” Keith asked, gesturing in Lance’s direction with a wet mug, spilling a few water droplets on his nose and interrupting his train of thoughts.

“Me,” he confirmed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater.

“But don’t you always say that you’re, I don’t know,” Keith paused to lean against the table and do a pair of weak finger-guns in an attempt of a Lance impression. “The tailor because of how you thread the needle? A cavity because of how you drill a hole in the tooth?”

Lance chuckled at his own words despite his best efforts. “I’m glad that you have that much faith in me, and that you’re dedicated enough of a stan to remember my pickup lines from two years ago, but yeah. I still don’t know how to write kissing scenes. Since I, y’know, never really done it. The kissing.”  
  
If Keith was surprised by this statement (and he was- even if he couldn’t see it, Lance was able to feel the short term tension of the body next to him) he didn’t voice it, opting to say another thing that bothered Lance instead.  
  
“Well you don’t pilot a sentient robot lion in space either, but you still have no problems writing about that.”

Lance groaned, letting his head hit the keyboard again- albeit this time carefully, so he would avoid any further bruises to go along with the one he earned a few minutes ago.  
  
“That’s the thing! I don’t even understand why this is such a huge problem- I read at least thousand kissing scenes, but I just can’t make it seem natural,” he muttered into the sleeves of his grey sweater, not really sure if Keith was even able to hear him. “Writing a one-shot with the only purpose of the story being to get the two of them to kiss just seems...I dunno. Fake.”  
  
Keith’s hand awkwardly hovered over him for a few seconds, before it finally landed on his back in what he supposed were meant to be comforting pats, but were a bit too firm to actually serve that purpose. It was okay though, Lance could appreciate the effort. They would work on Keith comforting people without slapping the air out of them later.  
  
“I’m not really good at this,”  
  
“I noticed.”  
  
Lance didn’t have to look up to know the type of glare he was receiving.

“As I was saying,” he started again, pointedly signaling for Lance not to interrupt. “You’re not going to get any better by stressing yourself out. Patience, yields, focus, and all that junk.”

“Wow,” Lance said, momentarily peeking out to look at Keith’s struggling expression. “You were right, for once. You really _are_ bad at this.”

“Oh shut up." He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I want to help you. And I know I’m not the best at comforting, and stuff, but I do care. And I’m here the entire day so, you can lay whatever bothers you on me. Though I can’t promise I won’t spit in your drink if you say something dumb.”

A blush spread all over Lance’s face, and he was suddenly very grateful for the sleeves that sufficiently covered it. Wanting to somehow show his appreciation, he blindly reached out to pat Keith’s hand- but as soon as he reached it the other intertwined their fingers; sending shivers from the tips of his fingers to his ears.

(What did the bro-code say about tenderly holding your bro's hand?)

Attempting to distract himself, Lance used the opportunity to complain that had been offered to him on a silver platter. “I’m helpless my dude. Unless you can bring me a cute person to smooch, I’ll perish.”

Keith sighed at his dramatics.

“Is this really that important to you?”  
  
“It is.” Lance insisted, “I just, I feel like I would let them down if I wrote something half-assed. And I really, really, don’t want to disappoint any more people than I already have.”  
  
A short silence enveloped the room, the quiet tapping of the snowflakes against the window and the consistent ticks of the coo-coo clock being the only ones to rival the recognizable whines of Mariah Carey coming from the old-fashioned stereo. Lance must have had felt really awful if he didn’t sing along to that.  
  
“Okay,” said Keith determinedly, breaking the silence and urging Lance to raise his head; confused when he found a not-at-all faint blush gracing the others’ cheeks. “Let’s do it then.”  
  
Lance blinked a few times, unsure if he was expected to know what Keith was referring to.  
  
“And what is it that we’re doing?” he raised an eyebrow to make his confusion even more apparent; not like that was necessary. He was pretty certain that his face already looked like that meme of a woman looking at complicated math equations.  
  
If Keith’s face had been somewhat pink before, it then turned completely brick red, and while Lance’s heart did a dramatic pirouette at how cute that was, his brain urged him to be at least a bit concerned. Because this was _Keith_ , and not even a genuine worry that his face might burst into flames could stop him from going through with whatever it was that he planned.  
  
“This place is full of mistletoes, so, technically, if we moved a little to left and kissed, you would get a real deal for your story.” And then he had the nerve to _shrug,_ as if he didn’t just completely shake up Lance’s entire universe. ”Unless you want to save your first kiss for someone you actually like.”  
  
Lance felt as if somebody kicked the air out of his lungs.

Objectively speaking, he knew that this was just Keith trying to be a good friend in his own, impulsive way. The place really did have a mistletoe above every table, and Lance would be a first-class liar if he said he didn’t gaze up at the one above their heads. He’d be an even bigger liar if he said he didn’t picture him and Keith kissing under the said mistletoe- but that by no means meant he was prepared for Keith to actually propose it, context unimportant.  
  
Subjectively, however, Lance found himself completely smitten. The tiny bit of hope he still carried immediately entertained the possibility, the idea on its own already making it feel as if a knot formed itself in Lance’s heart, binding and pressing all the way up to his throat.

“Did you just refer to yourself as cute?” He laughed nervously, instead of voicing all the other, important, questions he wanted to ask.

“What? No!” Keith said, clearly dumbfounded by Lance’s choice of commentary. “You can just refuse, it was a dumb idea anyway.” 

And that's how Lance found himself in a bigger predicament than he could handle. The poor boy had trouble picking out the shade of blue to wear, let alone making these potentially life-changing decisions.  
  
“No, I mean I just- kiss you? Me? As in, the two of us, together? Kissing? Smooching? Touching with our lips?”  
  
“Yes,” Keith tried his best to appear disinterested, but then his eyes darted down to Lance’s lips yet again, in a way that suggested otherwise; and all of the things it  _did_ suggest made Lance feel a little dizzy. “That’s kind of what kissing is, Tailor.”  
  
“Just checking!” he squeaked, cringing at how high his voice went. He tried again, clearing his throat and leaning against his table in a way that he hoped was at least a bit cool, not even realizing how accurately he mirrored Keith’s earlier impression of him. “I mean, yeah, sure. No biggie.”

Despite his words, he still stood frozen in his place, not making any of the moves he always praised himself for.  
  
“Lance?” Keith shifted in his seat so that he would be facing towards him, their knees touching.

And Lance always knew that Keith was attractive, but still ended up surprised at just  _how_ attractive he was this near. His grey eyes appeared to be tinted lilac under the shine of fairy-lights; pools of melted amethyst, luring him in.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He was whispering. Why was he whispering? When did they lean in close enough that whispering would be enough? Were they close enough for Keith to hear how fast his heart was beating? He was certain it was beating louder than their whisper.  
  
“Yes or no?”  
  
Close enough to feel Keith’s breath. To see the tiny, cinnamon-like freckles covering the bridge of his nose. To allow his gaze to fall on the curve of his lips. To notice they were almost close enough to brush against his own, if only he tilted his head a bit more.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
And then two cold hands were cupping the back of his neck, pulling him even closer. Closer, closer, closer; until their lips touched and he drowned in the pools of amethyst.   
  
He was kissing Keith.  
  
Keith was kissing him.

_They were kissing._

 The kiss wasn’t anything spectacular technique-wise. They were both a terrible combination of shy and determined, wanting to do it right, but too afraid of doing it wrong. Keith’s lips were chapped, and he tasted a bit like that jasmine green tea that he loved but Lance hated.

But there was also something else- something about the fact that this was _Keith_ he was kissing. Keith, who wore edgy fingerless gloves and laughed at the worst of puns. Who broke speed limits while on his bicycle but stopped to pet kittens on the street. Who only ever let Lance braid his hair; even though he knew he’d likely end up with a hairstyle even more ridiculous than his original mullet. Who was the only person Lance really wanted to kiss.

Lance wasn’t quite sure about what he was supposed to compare the kiss to. He wasn’t sure if it qualified as good or bad, or if he was even doing it right. All he knew was that he couldn't go back to not being able to feel this way.  
  
They separated shortly after, and even those two seconds of looking into Keith’s eyes were enough for him to completely lose it, burying his face underneath Keith’s chin.

(Yankee candle that smelled like Christmas cookies. It was nice.)  
  
“Are you-” a voice crack shouldn’t be that cute, dammit. “Are you, uh. Okay?”  
  
Was he okay? He felt a bit like floating, chills rushing through his lips and fingertips, spreading through his entire body. He should back away, he knew that much. But he couldn’t. And he ultimately didn't want to.  
  
“I’m having a crisis.” he said instead, feeling as if this was good enough of a summary.  
  
Keith offered him a pat on the back, which wasn’t exactly what movies showed people doing after they kiss; but to his credit, Keith genuinely did attempt for his pats to be gentle this time. Lance found that more endearing than he probably should have.  
  
“Oh. Do you wanna...talk about it?”  
  
Did he? In theory, he probably did, because there was no way that Lance McClain (the undoubted, exaggerated, awful romantic) could look Keith in the eye and pretend he didn’t want to kiss the living daylights out of him now that he tried it. He had enough trouble with concealing his feeling as it was, but now? No can do, good sir.  
  
In practice he still probably did, but he was also aware of the fact that his voice would crack five times in a sentence if he tried doing as much. So he just hummed, nuzzling his face further into the soft material of Keith’s black sweatshirt.  
  
“Is that a no?”  
  
Another hum.  
  
“That's okay.” Keith said, and Lance couldn't help but feel like his voice was saying the opposite. Like he was sad. Or disappointed. Before he could read into it any further, Keith lowered his own head until his nose was in Lance’s hair, successfully silencing and enhancing all of his thoughts at once. “Your hair smells nice, by the way.”  
  
“Thanks,” he answered. “It’s a Lush body gel, which should technically only go on the body, but I accidentally got in my hair because of who I am as a person.”  
  
Keith let out a chuckle at that and ruffled his hair affectionately, following the action by slowly running his fingers through it; a definite improvement from the shoulder pats. Lance produced a weird fusion of a shudder and a sigh, closing his eyes and allowing himself to melt into the touch. He could be happy like that. He could just stay like that and never move to face any of his problems ever again. That would be pretty swell.  
  
But of _freaking_ course, as soon as Lance got comfortable, Keith had to speak up again.  
  
“Why do I even like you this much?”  
  
It didn’t really sound like a question he expected an answer to, nor like a question he consciously wanted to ask- almost to the point where Lance needed a few seconds to even realize that he was the one this was directed to.  
  
The same moment that he did realize, he jumped as far away from his previous position as possible, quickly mourning the warmth of Keith’s arms as the cold winter air hit him.

That, according to the other's heartbroken reaction, was not the best course of actions when dealing with a confession. Especially a confession you have been dreaming of since you first wandered into the small cafe and accidentally fought the barista you were trying to charm.

(Once again, this might be solely a Lance experience.)  
  
Maybe the problem was in the fact that Lance wasn’t dealing; not yet, at least. He was still very vividly reliving the same sentence, trying to find a hole in events that just occurred.  
  
“You like me?” he asked, not having found the hole.  
  
Keith stubbornly remained his gaze trained to something left of Lance’s head, cheeks burning with the heat of thousand suns and patience running low.

“Yeah,” he said, in a voice too quiet, too timid.  
  
“You _like me_ , like me?”  
  
A sigh.  
  
“Yes, okay? I never meant to take the advantage of you and I don’t expect you to-”  
  
Whatever it was that wasn’t expected of him, he never found out. Later on, when Lance would tell the story to their friends, he would say that he cut Keith off with a passionate kiss, and Keith would roll his eyes; not doing anything to deny it. In reality, Lance was smart enough to know that he’d probably do the unexpected kiss thing wrong, sending them both to the hospital with broken noses.  
  
So he opted for embracing the other in a hug so hard it almost sent him to the hospital with a broken rib instead.  
  
“I like you too,” he finally proclaimed, completely stunned. “I like you, and you like me! We’re in like!”  
  
Keith stood in a frozen state for a few more seconds, and Lance moved away ever so slightly just in time to see the softest, widest smile stretch across Keith’s face, eyes gleaming with something warm and happy. _I caused that,_ Lance thought, delirious with his own happiness. _I caused it because he likes me._  
  
“Oh thank shit,” Keith said, his own arms coming up to clumsily return the hug. “I’m pretty sure that qualifies as one of the most terrifying moments of my life.”  
  
And then he giggled (Keith Kogane, honest to everything Lance loved, giggled) slowly creating enough distance between their faces just so he could laugh.

“We’re in like?”

Apparently even going through “one of the most terrifying experiences of his life”, wasn't enough to stop Keith from teasing Lance- although he was doing so through damp eyes and wet chuckles.  
  
Luckly enough, Lance was far too content to be bothered by the teasing right now, a dopey look on his face. “Damn straight we are.”  
  
Keith paused, looking down at their position and then back at Lance, an eyebrow raised.

“Maybe _straight_ isn't the best word.”  
  
Lance replied with a chuckle of his own, lost in admiring how stupidly pretty Keith looked this close up, the soft pink of his cheeks in contrast to the rough bruise on his jaw from when he got into a fist fight two days ago.  
  
“Hey, Keith?” Lance asked again, because now he could, trying his best not to separate from Keith’s side while simultaneously trying not to pick out his crush’s (Boyfriend’s?) eye with his finger guns. “I think I might need some more help with that kissing scene.”  
  
Keith raised his eyebrows, seemingly not impressed by Lance’s flirting; but visibly leaning forwards anyway.  
  
“Oh? And what did you have in mind?”  
  
Strands of his hair were escaping the already messy ponytail, and Lance found it unfair how hard (read as: impossible) it was to regulate his heartbeat with Keith so close to him. Ariana Grande’s voice echoed through the room, singing about true love and Christmas; and he couldn’t help but feel like she understood.  
  
“Well,” He angled forward until their foreheads were touching- a small smirk appearing in the corner of his lips despite his nerves. “I was thinking you could maybe show me again? For writing purposes, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Keith said, mimicking both his words and his smirk.  
  
And this was it. This was the time Lance would do it right, the time he was prepared. He would tilt his head just the right way, like they did in the books, and pin Keith down against the seat and-  
  
And nothing, because that- out of the entire afternoon- was when an old lady in a fur coat walked in, the tiny bells signaling her arrival.  
  
The two separated almost instantly, both developing a sudden interest in the object closest to them- which in Lance’s case meant carefully examining a cat-shaped cinnamon shaker. The woman eyed them suspiciously, and when Keith made no move to take her order Lance jabbed him in the side.  
  
“You work here.” he reminded him, helplessly smiling at Keith’s confused face, which looked as if he genuinely forgot why he was there in the first place.  
  
“Oh. I do.”  
  
“Well c’mon then,” Lance laughed, pushing him in the direction of the counter with his elbow. He was so glad he no longer had to conceal his fond looks, because almost-kissed-Keith was probably the most fondness-seeking sight in this galaxy. “Don’t leave the lady waiting. I have a story to write anyways.”  
  
Finally breaking out of his daze, Keith sent him a playful smile as he moved to get up.

“Better make it a good one McClain,” Keith said, once again jumping across the counter as if there wasn’t a customer in front of it. Lance snorted at her facial expression, looking more and more ready to write her name in the book of complaints with each passing moment.  
  
“Oh don’t worry Kogane,” he bit back, cheekily smiling as he leaned across the table and bit on his straw. “I’ve been getting some pretty grand help.”  
  
“Sounds nice. Maybe they’ll be down for helping some more in the future.”  
  
“Neat. Maybe I’ll be down for accepting it. Might even offer some help of my own.”  
  
A blush bloomed across Keith’s face, and Lance gave himself a mental pat on the back.  
  
“Cool,” Keith said, finally reaching to grab the mug for the lady- whose order he still didn’t get. The look she was sending them was downright murderous.  
  
“Very cool,” he confirmed, sending Keith one last beaming smile before the other was forced to turn in a different direction. 

Lance allowed himself a happy giggle; looking at the way Keith bit his lip as he made the woman's drink- the warm buzz of affection growing even stronger once he realized he would get to kiss those same lips later. And later. And later. And maybe even after that.

It turned out Lance didn’t mind writing about kissing at all.

He just needed the right inspiration.

 

**Author's Note:**

> keith did receive a scolding about customer service from coran, but that was fine- because he also received a pat on the head for getting a boyfriend.
> 
> if you liked this kudos and/or comments would be very much appreciated!! and in case you want to yell about klance w me feel free to do so on my tumblr: [allrua](https://allrua.tumblr.com/)


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